Starfire Enchanted
by moonsxstars
Summary: BASIC ON THE STORY ELLA ENCHANTED WITH TITIAN CHARACTERS. Starfire in curse to obey any giving order, but when she order to kill the one she love. Will she stop the curse in time. there will be 29 chp. other teen chrct. later kay
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

That fool of a fairy Lucinda did not intend to lay a curse on me. She meant to bestow a gift. When I cried inconsolably through my first hour of life, my tears were her inspiration. Shaking her head sympathetically at Mother, the fairy touched my nose. "My gift is obedience. Starfire will always be obedience. Now stop crying, child."

I stopped.

Father was away on a trading expedition as usual, but our cook, Raven, was there. She and Mother were horrified, but no matter how they explained it to Lucinda, they couldn't make her understand the terrible thing she'd done to me. I could picture the argument: Raven's freckles standing out sharper than usual, her straight violet hair in disarray, and her double chin shaking with anger; Mother still and intense, her brown curls damp from labor, the laughter gone from her eyes.

I couldn't imagine Lucinda. I didn't know what she looked like.

She wouldn't undo the curse.

My first awareness of it came on my fifth birthday. I seem to remember that day perfectly, perhaps because Raven told the tale so often.

"For your birthday," she'd start, "I baked a beautiful cake. Six layers."

Bertha, our head maid, had sewn a special gown for me. "Blue as midnight with a white sash. You were small for your age even then, and you looked like a china doll, with a white ribbon in your red hair and your cheeks pink from excitement."

In the middle of the table was a vase filled with flowers that Nathan, our manservant, had picked.

We all sat around the table. (Father was away again.) I was thrilled. I had watched Raven bake the cake and Bertha sew the gown and Nathan pick the flowers.

Raven cut the cake. When she handed me my piece, she said without thinking, "Eat"

The first bite was delicious. I finished the slice happily. When it was gone, Raven cut another. That one was harder. When it was gone, no one gave me more, but I knew I had to keep eating. I moved my fork into the cake itself.

"Starfire, what are you doing?" Mother said.

"Little piggy." Raven laughed. "It's her birthday, Lady. Let her have as much as she wants." She put another slice on my plate.

I felt sick, and frightened. Why couldn't I stop eating? Swallowing was a struggle. Each bite weighed on my tongue and felt like a sticky mass of glue as I fought to get it down. I started crying while I ate.

Mother realized first. "Stop eating, Starfire," she commanded.

I stopped.

Anyone could control me with an order. It had to be a direct command, such as "Put on a shawl," or "You must go to bed now." A wish or a request had no effect. I was free to ignore "I wish you would put on a shawl," or "Why don't you go to bed now?" But against an order I was powerless.

If someone told me to hop on one foot for a day and a half, I'd have to do it. And hopping on one foot wasn't the worst order I could be given. If you commanded me to cut off my own head, I'd have to do it.

I was in danger in every moment.

As I grew older, I learned to delay my obedience, but each moment cost me dear-in breathlessness, nausea, dizziness, and other complaints. I could never hold out for long. Even a few minutes were a desperate struggle. I had a fairy godmother, and Mother asked her to take the curse away. But my fairy godmother said Lucinda was the only one who could remove it. However, she also said it might be broken someday without Lucinda's help. But I didn't know how. I didn't even know who my fairy godmother was.

Instead of making me docile, Lucinda's curse made a rebel of me. Or perhaps I was that way naturally. Mother rarely insisted I do anything. Father knew nothing of the curse and saw me too infrequently to issue many commands. But Raven was bossy, giving orders almost as often as she drew breath. Kind orders or for-your-own-good orders. "Bundle up, Starfire." Or "Hold this bowl while I beat the eggs sweet."

I disliked these commands, harmless as they were. I'd hold the bowl, but move my feet so she would have to follow me around the kitchen. She'd call me minx and try to hem me in with more specific instructions, which I would find new ways to evade. Often, it was a long business to get anything done between us, with Mother laughing and egging each of us on by turn.

We'd end happily-with me finally choosing to do what Raven wanted, or with Raven changing her order to a request. When Raven would absentmindedly give me an order I knew she didn't mean, I'd say, "Do I have to?" And she reconsider.

When I was eight, I had a friend, Pamela, the daughter of one of the servants. One day she and I were in the kitchen, watching Raven make marchpane. When Raven sent me to the pantry for more almonds, I returned with only two. She ordered me back with more exact instructions, which I followed exactly, while still managing to frustrate her true wishes.

Later, when Pamela and I retreated to the garden to devour the candy, she asked why I hadn't done what Raven wanted straight off.

"I hate when she's bossy," I answered.

Pamela said smugly, "I always obey my elders."

"That's because you don't have to."

"I do have to, or father will slap me."

"It's not the same as for me. I'm under a spell." I enjoyed the importance of the words. Spells were rare. Lucinda was the only fairy rash enough to cast them on people.

"Like Sleeping Beauty?"

" Except I won't have to sleep for a hundred years."

"What's your spell?"

I told her.

"If anybody gives you an order, you have to obey? Including me?"

I nodded.

"Can I try it?"

"No." I hadn't anticipated this. I changed the subject. "I'll race you to the gate."

"All right, but I command you to lose the race."

"Then I don't want to race, and I command you to lose."

We raced. I lost.

We picked berries. I had to give Pamela the sweetest, ripest ones. We played princesses and ogres. I had to be the ogre. And hour after my admission, I punched her. She screamed, and blood poured from her nose. Our friendship ended that day. Mother found Pamela's mother a new situation far from our town of Frell.

After punishing me for using my fist, Mother issued one of her infrequent commands: never to tell anyone about my curse. But I wouldn't have anyway. I had learned caution.

When I was almost fifteen, Mother and I caught a cold. Raven dosed us with her curing soup, made with carrots, leeks, celery, and hair from a unicorn's tail. It was delicious, but we both hated to see those short violet hairs floating around the vegetables. Since Father was away from Frell, we drank the soup sitting up Mother's bed. If he had been home, I wouldn't have been in her room at all. He didn't like me to be anywhere near him, getting underfoot, as he said. I sipped my soup with the hairs in it because Raven had said to, even though I grimaced at the soup and at Raven's retreating back.

"I'll wait for mine to cool," Mother said. Then, after Raven left, she took the hairs out while she ate and put them back in the empty bowl when she was done. The next I was well and Mother was much worse, too sick to drink or eat anything. She said there was a knife in her throat and a battering ram at her head. To make her feel better, I put cool cloths on her forehead and told her stories. They were only old, familiar tales about the fairies that I changed here and there, but sometimes I made Mother laugh. Except the laugh would turn into a cough.

Before Raven sent me off for the night, Mother kissed me. "I love you, precious." They were her last words to me. As I left the room, I heard her last words to Raven. "I'm not very sick. Don't send for Sir Peter."

Sir Peter was Father.

The next morning, she was awake, but dreaming. With wide-open eyes she chattered to invisible courtiers and plucked nervously at her silver necklace. To Raven and me, there in the room with her she said nothing. Nathan, the manservant, got the physician, who hurried me away from Mother's side. Our hall way was empty. I followed it to the spiral staircase and walked down, remembering the times Mother and I had slid down the banister. We didn't do it when people were around.

"We have to be dignified," she would whisper then, stepping down the stairs in an especially stately way. And I would follow, mimicking her and fighting my natural clumsiness, pleased to be part of her game. But when we were alone, we preferred to slide and yell all the way down. And run back up for another ride, and a third, and a fourth. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I pulled our heavy front door open and slipped out into bright sunshine. It was a long walk to the old castle, but I wanted to make a wish, and I wanted to make it in the place where it would have the best chance of being granted.

The castle had been abandoned when King Jerrold was a boy, although it was reopened on special occasion, for private balls, weddings, and the like. Even so, Bertha said it was haunted, and Nathan said it was infested with mice. Its gardens were overgrown, but Bertha swore candle trees had power. I went straight to the candle grove. The candles were small trees that had been pruned and tried to wires to make them grow in the shape of candelabra. For wishes you need trading material. I closed my eyes and thought.

"If Mother gets well quick, I'll be good, not just obedient. I'll try harder not to be clumsy and I won't tease Raven so much." I didn't bargain for Mother's life, because I didn't believe she was in danger of dying.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

Leaving behind a grieving husband and child. "We must comfort them," High Chancellor Thomas wound down after droning on for almost an hour. Some of his speech had been about Mother. At least, the words " Lady Koriand'r" were spoken often, but the person they described-dutiful parent, loyal citizen, steadfast spouse-sounded more like the high chancellor than like my mother. Part of the speech had been about dying, but more about giving allegiance to Kyrria and its rulers, King Jerrold, Prince Grayson, and the entire royal family.

Father reached for my hand. His palm was moist and hot as a hydra's swamp. I wished I had been allowed to stand with Raven and the other servants. I pulled out of his grasp and moved a step away. He closed the distance between us and took my hand again. Mother's casket was made of gleaming mahogany carved with designs of fairies and elves. If only the fairies could leap out of the woods and cast a spell to bring her back to life. And another one to send Father away. Or maybe my fairy godmother would do it, if I knew where to find her.

When the high chancellor finished, it was my task to close the casket so Mother could be lowered into her grave. Father put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me forward. Mother's mouth was stern, the opposite of its look in life. And her face was empty, which was awful. But worse was the creak as the coffin lid went down and the dry click when it closed. And the thought of Mother packed away in a box.

The tears I had swallowed all day erupted. I stood there before the whole court, crying in an infant's endless wail, unable to stop myself. Father pressed my face into his chest. Perhaps he appeared to be comforting me, but he was only trying to muffle my noise, which couldn't be muffled. He let me go. In a sharp whisper, he said, "Get away from here. Come back when you can be quiet."

For once I was glad to obey. I ran. My heavy black gown tripped me, and I fell. Before anyone could help me, I was off again, my knee and hand stinging. The biggest tree in the graveyard was a weeping willow-a crying tree. I plunged through its leaves and threw myself down, sobbing. Everyone called it losing Mother, but she wasn't lost. She was gone, and no matter where I went-another town, another country, Fairyland, or Gnome Caverns-I wouldn't find her.

We'd never talk again, or laugh together. Or swim in the River Lucarno. Or slide down the banister or play tricks on Bertha. Or a million things. I cried myself out and sat up. My gown had changed in front from black silk to brown dirt. As Raven would have said, I was a spectacle. How much time had gone by? I had to go back.

Father had told me to, and the curse was tugging at me to obey. Outside the privacy of my tree, Prince Grayson stood, reading a tombstone. I had never been so near him before. Had he heard me cry?

Although the prince was only two years older than I, he was much taller, and he stood like his father, feet apart, hands behind his back, as though the whole country were passing by on review. He looked like his father too, although the sharp angles of King Jerrold's face were softened in his son. They each had jet-black hair spiked up and soft skin. I had never been near enough to the king to know whether he also had sparking blue eyes, surprising on such a pale face.

'Cousin of mine," the prince said, gesturing at the tombstone. "never liked him. I liked your mother." He started walking back toward her tomb. Did he expect me to come with him? Was I supposed to maintain a suitable distance from his royal self? With enough room for a carriage to pass between us, I walked at his side. He moved closer. I saw he had stayed upright and clean.

"You can call me Robin," he told me suddenly. "Everyone does."

I could? We walked in silence.

"My father calls me Robin too," he added.

The king!

"Thank you," I said.

"Thank you, Robin," he corrected. Then, "Your mother used to make me laugh. Once, at a banquet, Chancellor Thomas was making a speech. While he talked, your mother moved her napkin around. I saw it before your father crumpled it up. She had arranged the edge in the shape of the chancellor's profile, with the mouth open and the chi8n stuck out. It would have looked exactly like him if he were the color of a blue napkin. I had to leave without dinner so I could go outside and laugh."

We were halfway back. It was starting to rain. I could make out one figure, small in the distance, standing by Mother's grave. Father.

"Where did everyone go?" I asked Robin.

"They all left before I came to find you," he said. "Did you want them to wait?" He sounded worried, as if, perhaps, he should have made them stay.

"No, I didn't want any of them to wait," I answered, meaning Father could have gone too.

"I know all about you," Robin announced after we'd taken a few more steps.

"You do? How could you?"

"Your cook and our cook meet at the market at the market. She talks about you." He looked sideways at me. "Do you know much about me?"

"No." Raven had never said anything. "What do you know?"

"I know you can imitate people just as Lady Koriand'r could. Once you imitated your manservant to his face, and he wasn't sure wheter he was the servant or you were. You make up your own fairy tales and you drop things and trip over things. I know you once broke a whole set of dishes."

"I slipped on ice!"

"Ice chips you spilled before you slipped on them." He laughed. It wasn't a ridiculing laugh; it was a happy laugh at a good joke.

"An accident," I protested. But I smiled too, tremblingly, after so much crying.

We reached Father, who bowed. "Thank you, Highness, for accompanying my daughter."

Robin returned the blow.

"Come, Koriand'r," Father said.

Koriand'r. No one had ever called me that before, even though it was my real name. Koriand'r had always been Mother, and always wound be.

"Starfire. I'm Starfire," I said.

"Starfire then. Come, Starfire." He bowed to Prince Grayson and climbed into the carriage.

I had to go. Robin handed me in. I didn't know whether to give him my hand or to let him push up on my elbow. He wound up with the middle of my arm and I had to grasp the side of the carriage with the order hand there for balance. When he closed the door, I caught my skirt and there was a loud ripping sound. Father winced. I saw Robin through the window, laughing again. I turned the skirt and found a gash about six inches above the hem. Bertha would never be able to make it smooth.

"A fine affair. All of Frell came, everyone who counts anyway," he said, as though Mother's funeral had been a tournament or a ball. "It wasn't fine. It was awful," I said. How could Mother's funeral be fine?

"The prince was friendly to you."

"He liked Mother."

"Your mother was beautiful." His voice was regretful. "I'm sorry she's dead."

Nathan Flicked his whip, and the carriage began to move.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

When we reached the manor, Father ordered me to change into something clean and to hurry down to greet the guests who were arriving to pay their respects. My room was peaceful. Everything was just as it been before Mother died. The birds embroidered into the coverlet on my bed were safe in their world of cross-stitched leaves. My diary was on the dresser. The friends of my childhood-Flora, the rag doll, and Rosamunde, the wooden doll in the gown with seven flounces-nested in their basket.

I sat on the bed, fighting my need to obey Father's order to change and go back downstairs. Although I wanted to draw comfort from my room, from my bed, from the light breeze coming out through my window, I kept thinking instead of Father and getting dressed. Once I had overheard Bertha tell Raven that he was only person on the outside and that his insides were ashes mixed with coins and a brain.

But Raven had disagreed. "He's human through and through. No other creature would be as selfish as he is, not fairies or gnomes or elves or giants." For a full three minutes I delayed getting dressed. It was a terrible game I played, trying to break my curse, seeing how long I could last against the need to do what I had been told. There was a buzzing in my ears, and the floor seemed to tilt so far that I feared I would slide off the bed. I hugged my pillow until my arms hurt-as if the pillow were an anchor against following orders.

In a second I was going to fly apart into a thousand pieces. I stood and walked to my wardrobe. Immediately I felt perfectly fine. Although I suspected Father wanted me to wear another mourning gown, I put on the frock Mother liked best. She said the spicy green brought out my eyes. I thought I looked like a grasshopper in it- a skinny, spiky grasshopper with a human head and red straight hair. But at lease the gown wasn't black. She hated black clothing.

The great hall was full of people in black. Father came to me instantly. "Here's my lass, young Koriand'r," he said loudly. He led me in, whispering, "You look like a weed in that gown. You're supposed to be mourning. They'll think you have no respect for your-"

I was engulfed from behind by two chubby arms encased in rustling black satin. "My poor child, we feel for you." The voice was syrupy. " And Sir Peter, it's dreadful to see you on such a tragic occasion." An extra tight squeeze and I was released. The speaker was a tall, plump lady with long and way honey-colored tresses. Her face was a pasty white with twin spots of rouge. The younger one also lacked her mother's abundant hair; instead she had thin curls stuck tight to her scalp as though glued there.

"This is Dame Olga," Father said, touching the tall lady's arm. I curtsied and knocked into the younger girl. "Beg pardon," I said. She didn't answer, didn't move, only watched me.

Father continued. "Are these your lovely daughters?"

"They are my treasures. This is Babs, and this is Olive. They are off to finishing school in a few days."

Babs was older than I, by about two years. "Delighted to make your acquaintance," she said, smiling and showing large front teeth. She held her hand out as though she expected me to kiss it or bow over it. I stared, uncertain what to do. She lowered her arm, but continued to smile.

Olive was the one I'd bumped. "I'm glad to meet you," she said, her voice too loud. She was about my age. The furrows of a frown were permanently etched between her eyes.

"Comfort Koriand'r in her grief," Dame Olga told her daughters. "I want to talk with Sir Peter." She took Father's arm, and they left us.

"Our hearts weep for you," Babs began. "When you bellow at the funeral, I thought what a poor thing you are."

"Green isn't a mourning color," Olive said.

Babs surveyed the room. "This is a fine hall, almost as fine as the place, where I'm going to live someday. Our mother, Dame Olga, says your father is very rich. She says he can make money out of anything."

"Out of a toenail," Olive suggested.

"Our mother, Dame Olga, says your father was poor when he married your mother. Our mother says Lady Koriand'r was rich when they got married, but your father made her richer."

"We're rich too," Olive said. "We're luck to be rich."

"Would you show us the rest of the manor?" Babs asked.

We went upstairs and Babs had to look everywhere. She opened the wardrobe in Mother's room and, before I could stop her, she ran her hands over Mother's gowns. When we got back to the hall, she announced, "Forty-two windows and a fireplace in every room. The windows must have cost a trunkful of gold KJs."

"Do you want to know about our manor?" Olive asked. I didn't care if they lived in a hollow log.

"You'll have to visit us and see for yourself," Babs said in response to my silence.

We stood near the side table, which was loaded with mountains of food, from a whole roast hart with ivy threaded through its antlers to butter cookies as small and lacy as snowflakes. I wondered how Raven had, had time to cook it all.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Ye-" Olive began, but her sister interrupted firmly.

"Oh, no. No thank you. We never eat at parties. The excitement quite takes away our appetites."

"My appetite-" Olive tried again.

"Our appetites are small. Mother worries. But it looks delicious." Babs edged toward the food. "Quail eggs are such a delicacy. Ten brass KJs apiece Olive, there are fifty at lease."

More quail eggs than windows.

"I like gooseberry tarts," Olive said.

"We mustn't," Babs said "Well, maybe a little."

A giant couldn't eat half a leg of deer plus a huge mound of wild rice and eight of the fifty quail eggs and go back for dessert. But Babs could. Olive ate even more. Gooseberry tarts and currant bread and cream trifle and plum pudding and plum pudding and chocolate bonbons and spice cake-all dribbled over with butter rum sauce and apricot sauce and peppermint sauce.

They bought their plates close to their faces so their forks had the shortest possible distance to travel. Olive are steadily, but Babs put her fork down every so often to pat her mouth dainty with her napkin. Then she'd tuck in again, as avidly as ever. It was disgusting to watch. I looked down at a throw rug that used to lie under Mother's chair. Today it had been moved near the food. I had never concentrated on it before.

A hound and hunters chased a boar toward a fringe of scarlet wool. As I stared, I saw movement. Wind stirred the grass by the boar's feet. I blinked and the movement stopped. I started again and it started again. The dog had just bayed. I felt his throat relax. One of the hunters limped, and I felt a cramp in his calf. The boar gasped for breath and ran on fear and range.

"What are you looking at?" Olive asked. She had finished eating.

I started. I felt as if I'd been in the rug. Nothing. Just the carpet." I glanced at the rug again. An ordinary carpet with an ordinary design.

"Your eyes were popping out."

"They looked like an ogre's eyes," Babs said.

"Buggy. But there, you look more normal now."

She never looked normal. She looked like a rabbit. A shinny one the kind Raven didn't liked to slaughter for stew. And Olive's face was as blank as peeled potato.

"I don't suppose your eyes ever pop out," I said.

"I don't think so." Babs smiled complacently. "They too small to pop." The smile remained, but now it seemed pasted on.

"I forgive you, child. We in the peerage are forgiving. Your poor mother used to known for her ill breeding too."

"Girls!" Dame Olga bore down on us. "We must be going." She hugged me, and my nose filled with the stink of spoiled milk. They left Father was outside at the iron gate, saying good-bye to the rest of the guests. I went to Raven in the kitchen. She was piling up dirty dishes.

"Seems like those people didn't eat for a week."

I put on an apron and pumped water into the sink.

"They never tasted your food before."

Raven's cooking was better than anybody else's. Mother and I used to try her recipes sometimes. We'd follow the instructions exactly and the dish would be delicious, but never as wonderful as when Raven cooked it. Somehow, it reminded me of the rug.

"The carpet in the hall with the hunters and the boar, you know the one? Something funny happeded to me when I looked at it before."

"Oh, that silly thing. You shouldn't pay attention to that old rug." She turned to stir a pot of soup.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just a fairy joke."

A fairy rug!

"How do you know?"

"It belonged to Lady." Raven always called Mother "Lady."

That wasn't an answer.

"Did my fairy godmother give it to her?"

"A long time ago."

"Did Mother ever tell you who my fairy godmother is?"

"If she'd wanted you to know, your mother would have told you."

"She was going to. She promised. Please tell, Raven."

"I am"

"You are not telling. Who is it?"

"Me. Your fairy godmother is me. Here, taste the carrot soup. It's for dinner. How is it?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

My mouth open automatically. The spoon descended and a hot-but not burning-swallow poured in. Raven had gotten the carrots at their sweetest, carrotiest best. Weaving in and out of the carrots were other flavors: lemon, turtle broth, and a spice I couldn't name. The best carrot soup in the world, magical soup that nobody but Raven could make.

The rug. The soup. This was fairy soup. Raven was a fairy! But if Raven was a fairy, why was Mother dead?

"You're not a fairy."

"Why not?"

"If you were, you would have saved her."

"Oh, sweetie, I would have if I could. If she'd left the hair in my curing soup, she'd be well today."

"You knew? Why did you let her?"

"I didn't know till she was too sick. We can't stop dying."

I collapsed on the stool next to the stove, sobbing so hard I couldn't catch my breath. Then Raven's arm were around me, and I was crying into the ruffles along the neck of her apron, where had cried so many times before for smaller reasons. A drop landed on my finger. Raven was crying too. Her face was red and blotchy.

"I was her fairy godmother too," Raven said. "And your grandmother's." She blew her nose.

I push out of Raven's arms for new look at her. She couldn't be a fairy. Fairies were thin and younger and beautiful. Raven was as tall as a fairy was supposed to be, but who ever heard of a fairy with violet hair and pointy chin?

"Show me," I demanded.

"Show you what?"

"That you're a fairy. Disappear or something."

"I don't have to show you anything. And-with the exception of Lucinda-fairies never disappear when other creatures are present."

"Can you?"

"We can, but we don't. Lucinda is the only one who's rude enough and stupid enough."

"Why is it stupid?"

"Because it lets people know you're a fairy." She started to wash the dishes. "Help me."

"Do Nathan and Bertha know?" I carried plates to the sink.

"Know what?"

"You're a fairy."

"Oh, that again. No one knows but you. And you'd better keep it a secret." Raven looked her fiercest.

"Why?"

She just scowled.

"I will. I promise. But why?"

"I'll tell you. People only like the idea of fairies. When they bump up against a particular, real-as-corn fairy, there's always trouble." She rinsed a platter. "You dry."

"Why?"

"Because the dishes are wet, that's why." She saw my surprised face. "Oh, why is there trouble? Two reasons, mostly. People know we can do magic, so they want us to solve their problems for them. When we don't, they get mad. The other reason is we're inmortal. That gets them mad too. Lady wouldn't speak to me for a week when her father died."

"Why doesn't Lucinda care if people know she's a fairy?"

"She likes them to know, the fool. She wants them to thank her always awful gifts."

"Are they always awful?"

"Always. They are always awful, but some people are delighted to have a present from a fairy, even if it makes them miserable."

"Why did Mother know you're a fairy? Why do I know?"

"All the Koriand'r line are Friends of the Fairies. You have fairy blood in you."

"Very few. You're the only one left in Kyrria. And no, love, you can't do magic or live forever. It's just a drop of fairy blood. But there's one way it has already started to show. Your feet haven't grown for a few years, I'll warrant."

"None of me has grown for a few years."

"The rest of you will soon enough, but you'll have fairy feet. Like your mother did." Raven lifted the hems of her skirt and five petticoats to reveal feet that were no longer than mine. "We're too tall for our feet. It's the only thing we can't change by magic. Our men stuff their shoes so no one can tell, and we ladies hide them under our skirts."

I stuck a foot out of my gown. Tiny feet were fashionable, but would they make me even clumsier as I grew taller? Would I be able to keep my balance?

"Could you make my feet grow if you wanted to? Or . . ." I searched for another miracle. Rain pelted the window. "Or could you stop the rain?"

Raven nodded.

"Do it. Please do it."

"Why would I want to?"

"For me. I want to see magic. Big magic."

"We don't do big magic. Lucinda's the only one. It's too dangerous."

"What's dangerous about ending a storm?"

"Maybe nothing, maybe something. Use your imagination."

"Clear skies would be good. People could go outside."

"Use your imagination," Raven repeated.

I thought. "the grass needs rain. The crops need rain."

"More," Raven said.

"Maybe a bandit was going to rob someone, and he isn't doing it because of the weather."

"That's right. Or maybe I'd start a drought, and then I'd have to fix that because I started it. And then maybe the rain I sent would knock down a branch and smash in the roof of a house, and I'd have to fix that too."

"That wouldn't be your fault. The owners should have built a stronger roof."

"Maybe, maybe not. Or maybe I'd cause a flood and people would be killed. That's the problem with big magic. I only do little magic. Good cooking, my curing soup, my Tonic."

"When Lucinda cast the spell on me, was that big magic?"

"Of course it was. The numskull!" Raven scoured a pot so hard that it clattered and banged against the copper sink.

"Tell me how to break the spell. Please, Raven."

"I don't know how. I only know it can be done."

"If I told Lucinda how terrible it is, would she lift the spell, do you think?"

"I doubt it, but maybe. Then again, she might take away one spell and give you another even worse. The trouble with Lucinda is, ideas pop into her head and come out as spells."

"What does she look like?"

"Not like the rest of us. But you'd better hope you never lays eyes on her."

"Where does she live?" I asked. If I could find her, maybe I could persuade her to lift my curse. After all, Raven could be wrong.

"We're not on speaking terms. I don't keep track of the whereabouts of Lucinda the Idiot. Watch that bowl!" The order came too late. I got the broom.

"Are all fairies clumsy?"

"No, sweet. Fairy blood does not make you clumsy. That's human. You don't see me dropping plates, do you?" I started to sweep, but it wasn't necessary. The pieces of pottery gathered themselves together and flew into the trash bin. I couldn't believe it.

"That's about all I can do, honey. Small magic that can't hurt anybody. Handy sometimes, though. No sharp bits left on the floor." I stared into the bin. The shards lay there.

"Why didn't you turn it back into a bowl?"

"The magic's too big. Doesn't seem like it, but it is. Could hurt someone. You know."

"You mean fairies can't see the future? If you could, you'd know, wouldn't you?"

"We can't see the future any more than you can. Only gnomes can, a few of them anyway."

A bell tinkled somewhere in the house. Father calling one of the servant. Mother never used the bell.

"We're you my great-grandmother's fairy godmother too?" A thousand questions flooded in. "How long have you been our fairy godmother?" How old was Raven, really?

Bertha came in. "Sir Peter wants you in the study, miss."

"What does he want?" I asked.

"He didn't say." She twisted one of her braids anxiously. Bertha was scared of everything. What was there to be afraid of? My father wanted to talk to me. It was only to be expected.

I finish drying a plate, dried another, then a third.

"Best not tarry, little mistress," Bertha said.

I reached for a fourth dish.

"You'd better go," Raven said. "And he won't want to see that apron."

Raven was frightened too! I took off the apron and I stopped just within the doorway of the study. Father sat in Mother's chair, examining something in his lap.

"Ah, there you are." He looked up. "Come closer, Starfire."

I glared at him, resenting the order. Then I took one step forward. It was the game I played with Raven, obedience and defiance.

"I asked you to come closer, Koriand'r."

"I came closer."

"Not near enough. I won't bite you. I only want to get to know you a bit." He walked to me and led me to a chair facing him.

"Have you ever seen anything as splendid as this?"

He passed me the object he'd had in his lap. "You can hold it. It's heavy for its size. Here." I decided to drop it since he liked it so much. But I glanced at it first, and then I couldn't. I held a porcelain castle no bigger than my two fists, with six wee towers, each ending in a miniature candle holder. And oh! Strung between a window in each of two towers was a gossamer thread of china from which hung- laundry! A man's hose, a robe, a baby's pinafore, all thin as a spider's web. And, painted in a window downstairs, a smiling maiden waved a silken scarf. It seemed to be silk, anyway.

Father took it from me. "Close your eyes."

I heard him pull the heavy drapes shut. I watched through slitted eyes. I didn't trust him. He placed the castle on the mantel, put in candles, and lit them.

"Open your eyes."

I ran to look closer. The castle was a sparkling wonderland. The flames drew pearly tints out of the white walls, and the windows glowed yellow-gold, suggesting cheerful fires within.

"Ohhh!" I said.

Father opened the drapes and blew out the candles.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

I nodded. "Where did you get it?"

"From the elves. An elf made it. They're marvelous potters. One of Agulen's students made this. I've always wanted an Agulen, but I haven't got any yet."

"Where will you put it?"

"Where do you want me to put it, Starfire?"

"In a window."

"Not in your room?"

"In any room, but in a window." So it could wink out at everyone, inside and on the street. Father stared at me for a moment.

"I shall tell its buyer to place it in a window."

"You're going to sell it!"

"I'm a merchant, Starfire. I sell things." For a minute he spoke to himself. "And perhaps I can pass this one off as a genuine Agulen. Who could tell?" He came back to me. "Now you know who I am: Sir Peter, the merchant. But who are you?"

"A daughter who used to have a mother."

He waved that aside. "But who is Starfire?"

"A lass who doesn't wish to be interrogated."

He was pleased. "You have courage, to speak to me so." He look me over. "That's my chin." He touched it, and I drew back. "Strong. Determined. That's my nose. I hope you don't mind that the nostrils flare. My eyes, except yours are green. Most of your face belongs to me. I wonder how it will be on a woman when you grow up."

Why did he think it was fine to talk about me as though I were a portrait of a maiden?

"What shall I do with you? He asked himself.

"Why must you do something with me?"

"I can't leave you to grow up a cook's helper. You must be educated." He changed the subject. "What did you think of Dame Olga's daughters?"

"They were not comforting," I said.

Father laughed, really laughed, head back, shoulders heaving. What so funny? I dislike being laughed at. It made me want to say something nice about the loathsome Babs and Olive.

"They meant well, I suppose." Father wiped tears from his eyes.

"They didn't mean well. The older one is an unpleasant conniver like her mother and the younger one is a simpleton. It never entered their heads to mean well." His voice became thoughtful. "Dame Olga is titled and rich."

What did that have to do with anything?

"Perhaps I should send you to finishing school with her daughters. You might learn how to walk like the slip of a thing you are and not like a small elephant."

Finishing school! I'd have to leave Raven. And they'd tell me what to do all the time and I'd have to do it, whatever it was. They'd try to get rid of my clumsiness, but they wouldn't be able to. So they'd punish me, and I'd punish them back, and they'd punish me more.

"Why can't I just stay here?"

"I suppose you could be taught by a governess. If I could find someone . . ."

"I would much rather have a governess, Father. I would study very hard if I had a governess."

"But not otherwise?" His eyebrows rose, but I could tell he was amused. He stood and went to the desk where Mother used to work out our household accounts.

"You may go now. I have work to do."

I left. On my way out, I said, "Perhaps small elephants cannot be admitted to finished. Perhaps they . . ." I stopped. He was laughing again.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The next night I had to dine with Father. I had trouble sitting down at the table because Bertha had made me wear a fashionable gown, and my petticoat was voluminous. On Father's plate and mine was sparrowgrass covered with a tarragon-mustard sauce. In front of his plate was a many-faceted crystal goblet. When I finally managed to settle in my chair, Father signaled to Nathan to pour wine into the goblet.

"See how it catches the light, Koriand'r." He raised it. "It makes the wine sparkle like a garnet."

"It's pretty."

"Is that all? Just pretty?"

"It's very pretty, I suppose." I refused to love it. He was going to sell it too.

"You may appreciate it more if you drink from it. Have you ever tasted wine?"

Raven never let me. I reached for the goblet and trailed my balloon sleeves through the sparrowgrass sauce. But the goblet was too far away. I had to stand. I stood on my skirts and lost my balance, pitching forward. To stop my arm crashing down on the table and knocked into Father's elbow. He dropped the goblet. It fell and broke neatly into two pieces, stern severed from body. A red stain spread across the tablecloth, and Father's doublet was dotted with wine. I steeled myself for his rage, but he surprised me.

"That was stupid of me," he said, dabbing his clothes with a napkin. "When you came in, I saw you couldn't manage yourself." Nathan and a serving maid whisked away the tablecloth and broken glass.

"I apologize," I said.

"That won't put the crystal back together, will it?" he snapped, then collected himself. "Your apology is accepted. We will both change our clothes and begin our meal." I return in a quarter hour, in a everyday gown.

"It is my fault," Father said, cutting into a sparrowgrass spear. "I've let you grow up an oaf."

"I'm not an oaf!"

Raven wasn't one to mince words, she'd never called me that. Clumsy, bumbling, gawky-but never an oaf. Blundered, lumpkin, fumble-footbut never an oaf.

"But your young enough to learn," Father went on. "Someday I may want to take you into civilized company."

"I don't like civilized company."

"I may need civilized company to like you. I've made up my mind. It's off to finishing school with you."

I couldn't go. I wouldn't!

"You said I could have a governess. Wouldn't that be less expensive than sending me away?"

A serving maid whisked away my uneaten sparrowgrass and replaced it with scallops and tomato aspic.

"How kind of you to worry. A governess would be much more expensive. And I haven't the time to interview governesses. In two days, you shall go to finishing school with Dame Olga's daughters."

"I won't."

He continued as though I hadn't spoken. "I'll write a letter to the headmistress, which I shall entrust to you, along with a purse with enough KJs to stop her protests against a last-minute pupil."

"I won't go."

"You shall do as I say, Koriand'r."

"I won't go."

"Starfire . . ." He bit into a scallop and spoke while he chewed. "Your father is not a good man, as the servants have already warned you, unless I miss my guess."

I didn't deny it.

"They may have said I'm selfish, and I am. They may have said I'm impatient, and I am. They may have said I always have my way. And I do."

"I do too," I lied.

He grinned at me admiringly. "My daughter is the bravest wench in Kyrria." The smile vanished, and his mouth tightened into a hard, thin line. "But she shall go to finishing school if I have to take her myself. And it will not be a pleasant trip if I have to lose time from my trading because of you. Do you understand, Starfire?"

Angry, father reminded me of a carnival toy, a leather fist attached to a coiled spring used in puppet shows. When the spring was released, the fist shot out at a hapless puppet. With Father, it wasn't the fist that frightened me; it was the spring, because the spring determined the force of the blow. The anger in his eyes was so tightly coiled that I didn't know what would happen if his spring were tripped. I hated being frightened, but I was.

"I'll will go to finishing school." I couldn't help adding, "But I shall loathe in."

His grin was back. "You are free to loathe it or to love, so long as you go."

It was a taste of obedience without an order, and I didn't like it any better than the Lucinda-induced kind. I left the dining room, and he didn't stop me. It was early evening. In spite of the hour, I went up to my room and donned my nightgown. Then I moved my dolls, Flora and Rosamunde, into bed and climbed in. they had stopped sleeping with me years before, but tonight I need special comfort. I gathered them on my stomach and waited for sleep. But sleep was busy elsewhere. Tears started. I pushed Flora against my face.

"Sweetie . . ." The door opened. It was Raven with Tonic and box. I felt bad enough.

"No Tonic, Raven. I'm fine. Truly."

"Oh, lovely." She put down the Tonic and the box and held me, stroking my forehead.

"I don't want to go," I said into her shoulder.

"I know, honey," she said. She held me for a long while, until I was almost asleep. Then she shifted her weight.

"Tonic time."

"I'll skip tonight."

"No you won't. Not tonight, especially. I won't have you getting sick when you need your strength." A spoon came out of her apron. "Take it. Three spoons."

I braced myself. Tonic tasted nutty and good, but felt slimy, like swallowing a frog. Each spoonful oozed along my throat. I continued to gulp after it was down, to rid myself of the sensation. But it made me feel better-a little better. Ready to talk anyway. I settled myself back in Raven's lap.

"Why did Mother marry him?" This question had troubled me since I was old enough to think about it.

"Until she was his wife, Sir Peter was very sweet to Lady. I didn't trust him, but she wouldn't listen to me. Her family didn't approve because he was poor, which made Lady want him even more, she was that kindhearted." Raven's hand stopped its comforting journey up and down my forehead. "Starfire, pet, try to keep him from learning about the spell on you."

"Why? What would he do?"

"He likes his way to much. He'd use you."

"Mother ordered me not to tell about the curse. But I wouldn't anyway."

"That's right." Her hand went back to work on my forehead. I closed my eyes.

"What will it be like, do you think?"

"At school? Some of the lasses will be loved will be lovely. Sit up, sweet. Don't you want your presents?"

I had forgotten about the box. But there had been only one. "Presents?"

"One at a time." Raven handed me the box I'd seen. "For you, wherever you go your whole life."

Inside the box was a book of fairy tales. I had never seen such beautiful illustrations. They were almost alive. I turn the pages, marveling.

"When you look at it, you ca remember me and take comfort."

"I'll save it until I leave, so the stories will be new."

Raven chuckled. "You won't finishing it so fast. It grows on you." She fished in the pocket of her apron and fetched out a tissue-paper packet. "From Lady. She would have wanted you to have it." It was Mother's necklace. Threads of silver ended almost at my waist in a woven pattern of silver studded with tiny pearls.

"You'll grow into it, sweet, and look as lovely wearing it as your mother did."

"I'll wear it always."

"You're be wise to keep it under you gown when you go out. It's that valuable. Gnomes made it."

The bell tinkled downstairs. "That father of yours is ringing."

I hugged Raven and clung to her. She disentangled herself from my arms. "Let me go, love." Planting a kiss on my cheek, she left. I settled back into bed, and this time sleep claimed me.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The next morning, I woke with my fingers curled around Mother's necklace. The colock in King Jerrold's palace was just striking six. Perfect. I wanted to rise early and spend the day saying good-bye to the places I loved best.

I put my gown over the necklace and crept down to the pantry, where I found a tray of freshly baked scones. They were hot, so I tossed two in the air and caught them in my skirt, pulling it out to make a basket. Then, looking down at my breakfast, I ran to the house and right into Father.

He was in the entranceway, waiting for Nathan to bring the carriage around.

"I don't have time for you now, Koriand'r. Runoff and bang into somebody else. And tell Raven I'll be back with bailiff. We'll need lunch."

As instructed, I ran off. Aside from its dangerous aspect, the curse often made a fool of me and was partly the reason I seemed so clumsy. Now I had to bang into someone.

Bertha was carrying wet laundry. When I bumped into her, she dropped her basket. My gowns and stockings and undergarments tumbled onto the tiles. I helped her pick them up, but she was going to have to wash everything over again.

"Little mistress, it's hard enough getting your things ready so quick without having to do it twice," she scolded.

After I apologized, and after I delivered Father's message to Raven, and after she made me sit down and eat breakfast on a plate, I started for the royal menagerie just outside the walls of the walls of the king's palace.

My favorite exhibits were the taking birds and the exotic animals. Except for the hydra in her swamp and the bady dragon, the exotics- the unicorn, the herd of centaurs, and the gryphon family- lived on an island meadow surrounded by an extension of the castle moat.

The dragon was kept i an iron cage. He was beautiful in his tiny ferocity and seemed happiest when flaming, his ruby eyes gleaming evilly.

I bought a morsel of yellow cheese from the stand next to the cage and toasted it in the fire, which was a tricky business, getting close enough for cooking but not so close that the dragon got the treat.

I wondered what King Jerrold planned to do when he grew up. I wondered also whether I wound be home to learn his fate.

Beyond the dragon , a centaur stood near the moat, gazing at me. Did centaurs like cheese? I walked toward him quietly, hoping he wouldn't gallop off.

"Here," a voice said.

I turned. It was Prince Richard, offering me an apple.

"Thank you,"

Holding out my hand, I edged closer to the moat. The centaur's nostrils flared and he trotted toward me. I tossed the apple. Two other centaurs galloped over, but mine caught the treat and started eating, cruching loudly.

"I always expect them to thank me or to say, 'How dare you stare?' " I said.

"They're not smart enough to talk. See how blank their eyes are." He pointed, teaching me.

I knew all that, but perhaps it was a princely duty to explain matters to one's subjects.

"If they had words," I said, "they wouldn't be able to think of anything to say."

A surprised silence followed. Then Robin laughed. "That's funny! You're funny. As the Lady Koriand'r was." He looked stricken. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you."

" I think of her often," I said. Most of the time. We walked along the edge of the moat. "Wound you like an apple too?" He held out another one.

I wanted to make him laugh again. I pawed the ground with my right foot and tossed my head as though I had a mane. Opening my eyes as wide as they'd go, I stared stupidly at Robin and took the apple.

He did laugh. Then he made an announcement. "I like you. I'm quite taken with you." He took a third apple for himself out of the pocket of his cape.

I liked him too. He wasn't haughty or disdainful, or stuffy, as High Chancellor Thomas was.

All the Kyrrians bowed when we passed, and the visiting elves and gnomes did too. I didn't know how to respond, but Robin raised his arm each time, bent at the elbow in the customary royal salute. It was habit, natural to him as teaching. I decided on a deep nod. Curtsies often tipped me over.

We came to the parrot cages, my other favorite place. The birds spoke all the languages of the earth: human foreign tongues and the exotic tongues of Gnomic, Elfian, Ogrese, and Abdegi (the language of the giants). I loved to imitate them, even though I didn't know what they were saying.

Simon, their keeper, was my friend. When he saw Robin, he bowed low. Then he returned to feeding an orange bird.

"This one's new," he said. "Speaks Gnomic and doesn't shut up."

",fwthchor evtoogh brzzay eerth ymmadboech evtoogh brzzaY" the parrot said.

",fwthchor evtoogh brzzay eerth ymmadboech evtoogh brzzaY" I repeated.

"You speak Gnomic!" Robin said.

"I like to make the sounds. I only know what a few words mean."

"She does it just right, doesn't she, your Highness?"

"Fawithkor evtuk brizzay. . . " Robin gave up. "It sounded better when you did it."

",achoed dh eejh aphchuZ uochludwaacH" the parrot squawked.

"Do you know what he said?" I asked Simon, who was able to translate occasionally.

Simon shook his head. " Do you know, sir?"

"No. It sounds like gargling."

Other visitors claimed Simon's attention. "Excuse me," he said.

Robin watched while I said farewell to each bird.

".iqkwo pwach brzzay ufedjeE" That was Gnomic for "Until we dig again."

"ahthOOn SSyng!" Ogrese for "Much eating!"

"Aiiiee ooo (_howl) _bek aaau!" Abdegi for "I miss you already!"

"Porr ol pess waddo." Elfian for "Walk in the shade."

I memorized the sight of the birds and Simon. "Good-bye," I called. He waved.

Lest they be frightened out of their feathers, a garden separated the birds from the ogres. We passed beds of flowers while I tried to teach Robin a few of the words he'd just heard. His memory was good, but his accent was unalterably Kyrrian.

"If they heard me, the elves would never let me stand under a tree again."

"The gnomes would hit you over the head with a shovel."

"Would the ogres decide I was unworthy of consumption?"

We neared their hut. Even though they were locked in, soldiers were posted within arrow range. An ogre glared at us through a window.

Ogres weren't dangerous only because of their size and their cruelty. They knew your secrets just by looking at you, and they used their knowledge. When they wanted to be, they were irresistibly persuasive. By the end of an ogre's first sentence in Kyrrian, you forgot his pointy teeth, the dried blood under his fingernails, and the coarse black hair that grew on his face in clumps. He became handsome in your eyes, and you thought him your best friend. By the end of the second sentence, you were so won over that he could do whatever he wanted with you, drop you in a pot to cook, or, if he was in a hurry, eat you raw.

",pwich aooyeh zchoaK" a soft, lisping voice said.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

"Doesn't sound like an ogre. Where did it come from?"

",pwich aooyeh zchoaK" the voice repeated, this time with a hint of tears in its tones.

A toddler gnome poked his head out of an aqueduct only a few feet from the hut. I saw him at the same moment the ogre did.

He could reach the child through the unglazed window! I started for the boy, but Robin was quicker. He snatched him up just before the ogre's arm shot out. Robin backed away, holding the youngster, who squirmed to get out of his grasp.

"Give him to me," I said, thinking I might be able to quite him.

Robin handed him over.

'szEE frah myNN," the ogre hissed,glaring at Robin "myNN SSyng szEE. myNN thOOsh forns." Then he turned to me and his expression changed. He started laughing. "mmeu ngah suSS hijyNN eMMong. myNN whadz szEE uiv. szEE AAh ohrth hahj ethSSif szEE." Tears of mirth streaked down his cheeks, leaving trails on his filthy face.

Then he said in Kyrrian, not bothering to make his voice persuasive,"Come to me and bring the child."

I stood my ground. Now I had to break the curse. My life and another's depended on it.

My knees began to tremble from the need to walk. I held back, and my muscles cramped, shooting pain through my calves. I squeezed the little gnome in my effort to resist, and he yelped and twisted in my arms.

The ogre continued to laugh. Then he spoke again. "Obey me this instant. Come. Now."

Against my will I took a step. I stopped, and the trembling started again. Another step. And another. I saw nothing, except that leering face, looming closer and closer.


End file.
